Five
by cellotlix
Summary: Kaidan after the destruction of the Normandy and the death of Shepard.


**AN: Blame Dandy in the Aspic for this one, guys. I was going to work on AVLE tonight, but this bit me and I couldn't let it go. I'm a bit rusty, but even so I hope you all enjoy. Leave me a review and let me know what you all think. Thanks for reading, everyone. **

Five stages of grief, they told him. _They weren't nameless things that cut him up and left him broken, blade-like apparitions that tormented him every minute of every day. They were five entries on a list, abstractions to be observed._

Maybe they thought the logic of it all would comfort him. That had worked in the past, after all. Or maybe they thought he'd appreciate that others had suffered as he had, like that would make any difference from the bottom of the hole that was his grief.

It might as well have been five thousand years.

* * *

1. Denial

He watches it happen from the cool, airless place in his mind, the place where there was no emotion rippling against his thoughts, no anger or fear or, most damning of all, love. There are only orders to obeyed, and Shepard hurls one at him now: "Get the hell to the escape pods!"

An explosion rocks the ship under their feet. He can't see her face; her visor reflects his own helmeted visage back at him, so he has the disconnected sensation of being ordered to go by himself. Save for the voice, which is wonderfully her own – hoarse, tight with temper. He almost can see the angle of her brows pulled low over hard eyes. This is not a voice you argue with, but he wants to now. He hesitates for five seconds too long, the cool part of him that obeys orders battling with the more essential part, the all-encompassing part that loves her beyond his ability to express.

And they come together in defeat. "Aye aye," he says.

How could he have known, he mourns later. How could he have known that furious command would be all that remained, the final word on what was supposed to be a long life together, bright and full with each other?

He watches pieces of the Normandy drift by the escape pod window, and it never occurs to him that Shepard might be gone. He knows with the certainty of a child that she's waiting for him in another drifting pod, suspended in the rubble-strewn void. She'll step onto the deck of whatever ship finds them and whip her helmet across the docking bay, all temper. She'll meet his gaze – full with fury and heartbreak and relief. They'll wait until they are alone before they embrace, before she claims his mouth and twists her hands behind his neck, clinging desperately.

They're found by an Alliance frigate eight hours later. It takes another two hours to bring all the survivors aboard, and he waits, pacing like a creature possessed. This will not have passed until her feet touch the deck, until he feels her under his hands and hears her voice and watches the brightness of her, an open flame.

He is resilient, even when cracks of doubt should break through his neurotic certainty.

Joker's pod is the last to be recovered, and Kaidan lets out a breath of relief. She had said she'd get him away, after all. She's just on the other side of the metal door.

It doesn't properly register when only Joker limps out, his face buried in a trembling hand, his other arm hanging limp at his side, mottled with bruises.

"Where is she?" Kaidan asks hoarsely.

But Joker only shakes his head.

"Where is she?" he says again.

He repeats the question until they lead him away, and each repetition is louder, more desperate. There is a splitting headache just between his eyes, churning away like a grotesque forge, and he feels oddly as if he is no longer connected to his body. He sees himself lashing out at Joker, who does not defend against his onslaught. He screams until no sound comes out.

And still the truth does not surface. Not for a while.

* * *

"_You don't have to tell me."_

_Shepard shakes her head. "It's all right. It's good to talk about." She lets out an unsteady breath. "A little strange, though. I never have. To anyone else, I mean."_

_There is something so tender in this admission; that she trusted him enough to guard her grief, a warden of her secret and hurts. "I'm honored."_

_The teasing smirk is back. "Right, what an honor. Listening to me whine."_

"_You're not whining."_

_But the moment is gone, and she pulls away. This always happens when they delve too deeply. "I'm onto you, Alenko," she says." You think buttering me up will earn you favors later, when the lights go out. I see right through you, mister. I see right to your bones."_

* * *

2. Anger

At first, he exists in a state of numbness; the disassociation before that first cut, the one that goes deepest. It is as if he is watching the world from behind a fogged lens, and he is unable to make any sense of the murky soup of his life. He wakes up expecting Shepard to be there, her hair a mused tangle in the pillows, softly snuffling in sleep. He drifts through the day believing she's just around the corner, and he craves that brief contact the way an addict craves his poison.

When he realizes she is gone, the violence of his anger stuns him. He forgets what it's like not to have a seething ball of rage churning in his gut, constricting tighter and tighter until he can't breathe; all he can do is choke on the force of his anger, the rotting hatred that she would dare order him away and go off and die.

How thoughtless! How fucking inconsiderate! She is cowardly and low, less than nothing. And it isn't enough that her death has robbed him of her; it's now robbed him of every beautiful memory he had.

What exactly is he supposed to do now that she's gone? Carry her broken promises across his back like a turtle with a sundered, rotted shell? Fester with them until he dies too? _I love you, _she had said, her hands twining with his. _I'll never leave you. _

_Yes._

He sweeps his belongings off the shelves in a cascade of putrefied anger and howls.

* * *

He is assigned a counselor to help guide him through this impenetrable maze of grief. "Everything you're feeling is normal," she says in a china-shop voice, afraid to shatter him. "It's all right to be angry."

She wants him to vent, but he won't. He pulls it all inward and lets it rot. He's had practice, after all. He's a fucking professional at burying.

* * *

"_It's surprising," she says, absently twisting a strand of red hair around her finger. _

"_What is?"_

"_When you start to hate them."_

_He can't think of anything to say in response. He's horrified, naturally; he'd had some romantic picture of grief in his mind. Crystalline tears, noble sadness, eventual acceptance. He doesn't want to hear that it's a messy affair. "You couldn't have."_

"_Because you'd know, would you?" she says in a hard voice. "Yes, I did." Her eyes narrow. "And you would too. Say I die in some stupid way; you'd hate me just the same. You'd hate that I lost, that it defeated me. You'd hate me so much it would make you sick." _

_He shakes his head and folds her hands between his own, holding them tightly, as if he fears she will disappear. "Never."_

* * *

3. Bargaining

He almost decides to skip her memorial.

It isn't that he can't bear to say goodbye, to watch the Alliance dignitaries take their turns at the podium and profess how important she was and how desperately she will be missed, as if they have any idea at all.

It's that lately a seductive idea has taken hold, and he doesn't want to let it go. The funeral will be the end of it, he knows, and he can't bear to lay it to rest.

She can't be dead, not really. They never found her body, after all. They simply declared her killed in action and closed her file, stark red letters stamped across its face. But what are those red letters when it comes to finality? How could anyone let them have the last say?

He gambles with god. He writes off everything he owns easily, if only for the chance to see her face again, to hear her laughter, see the light in her eyes. He even bargains things that aren't his to give away; years of his life, his abilities, his convictions.

"This is normal," the counselor chants, that disgusting mantra. He doesn't know why he bothers going to counseling anymore. She isn't helping him navigate this morass. All she gives him is cheap assurance that he isn't abnormal, and what a flimsy thing that is! It's cold comfort when he lies awake at night, a constant migraine pulsing at his temples, thoughts churning.

"Have you lost weight?" she asks one day as he's about to leave.

He doesn't have a satisfactory answer. He can't remember the last time he ate.

* * *

"We'd like to put you back to work," Anderson tells him. "After the memorial."

"Fine."

"I know things have been . . . hard. I think it'll do you some good to keep your hands busy."

"I agree."

Kaidan doesn't understand why Anderson is looking at him like he expects him to argue. It's a good idea. The idle days at his parents' home leave him with nothing to do but think, and his thoughts are dangerous, fathomless.

He prefers to avoid them.

* * *

_Kaidan traces his fingers over the taunt muscle of her belly, the slight curve sloping downward, grinning when she squirms under his hands. She captures them and presses her lips to his fingertips. "Insatiable," she mutters._

"_You'd tell me if you really hated it."_

"_I sure would."_

_They watch the sun rise from their supine position on the bed, the light creeping over the floor until it washes over them, bathing them in warmth. He watches the light catch in her hair, and at that moment she seems to be like the heart of a flame. _

"_What?" She's caught him staring, with what he suspects is an expression of worship._

"_I like looking at you." He smiles. "For a long time, I couldn't when I wanted."_

"_Well, you could. But it wouldn't have been appropriate."_

"_Right." He cups her face. "God. Do you know how much I love you?"_

"_Actually, I don't," she says, sly. "I think I need you to tell me."_

"_How often?"_

"_Once a day. At the least."_

"_I bet you can manage with once a week."_

"_You really want to undersell this?" She arches provocatively. _

_And he caves, pressing her into his arms completely and marveling at the way they fit, like two pieces of a whole. "It's no use bargaining with you."_

* * *

4. Depression

The day of the memorial service arrives, and he hardly recognizes himself. He is gaunt, ragged. His face is rough with untended stubble, and his hair is perpetually mused. There are deep shadows circling his eyes. He works every moment of the day and manages to keep the grief and anger pushed low, but it remains, impossible to purge. His complete failure is obvious when he looks in the mirror.

Nevertheless, he makes an attempt, though the point of it escapes him. He irons his dress blues and pulls them straight over his shoulders; it wouldn't do to show up at Shepard's memorial rumpled like a vagrant.

As he's shaving, though, his hand trembles and the razor slices his cheek, a pearly drop of red beading from the wound almost instantly. He is mesmerized by the blood, watching it slide down his face, catching in the unshaved stubble. It is a visceral reminder that he is not dead, though shamefully sometimes he wishes he was.

Vancouver is bright in the throes of spring, and the sun shines spitefully. It would have been easier to bear rain; the traditional climate of sadness. It would have felt as if life commiserated with his loss, and he could have used the camaraderie.

The service is just as awful as he feared. The room is filled with appropriately contrite dignitaries, their heads bowed, voices low. "Such a shame," he hears over and over, and he's too numb to take refuge in anger at how inappropriate they are. "A true loss." As if they really know the truth of what they're saying. They're reading from a script, and the words roll off their tongues without effort. He would hate them, if he could.

He first notices the red flowers, hundreds of them. He doesn't know much about flowers and he couldn't say what kind they are, but the shade of red is exactly the same as her hair; he would know that even if he were blind, from all the times he'd wrapped it around his finger and admired the color, like burnished blood.

There is music playing on the loudspeakers, far too raw and intimate for a service. It mingles with the interspersed weeping of the true mourners, so that he wonders if perhaps there was a part for sobbing chorus included in the score. _"When David heard that Absalom was slain . . ." _they sing, rising and falling to a pristine hush.

At the front of the room is her service portrait. Hair pushed behind her ears, brow furrowed, mouth stern. This was taken only last year; they'd seen it in a recruitment advert, and she'd grumbled under her breath. "I look like a goddamn stuffed shirt," she muttered before marching on.

At the time, he'd found it painfully endearing. Now, he can hardly stand to look at it.

He drifts in during the service. He should pay attention, he knows, but the words flit away too fast for him to catch. Anderson speaks, and then Hackett. "—a privilege," "—will be missed," "—always did her duty." Kaidan notices a genuine shine in Hackett's eyes before he blinks quickly, and it's gone.

When the service is over, Hackett is the one to receive Shepard's flag. Kaidan wasn't asked. Officially, they were Commander and Lieutenant.

Officially, that was all.

* * *

_He wakes to her weeping. She's trying not to shake the bed, but the effort has made it worse, until she's actively choking on sobs. He pulls her into his chest and kisses her brow, stroking her hair. "Shh . . . " he whispers, and she shivers._

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Don't be."_

_He waits until she's calmed, running his hands up and down her arms until she is a still as the surface of an untroubled lake. "What's wrong?" _

_She takes a shuddering breath. "It was a year ago, today. To the hour."_

_She doesn't have to elaborate. "Oh, Sam," he breathes into her hair, pulling her close and wrapping his arms tightly around her, as if he by chance he could shield her from the things that burrowed deep and stuck close, wounding as they went._

_She's crying again. "They said it would get better. That it wouldn't be like this."_

* * *

5. Acceptance

Kaidan goes to work. He functions. He eats regular meals, even if he can't taste the food. He engages with his fellow soldiers, though he is more like a machine than a man. His efficiency is unrivaled, and it's no surprise when he's eventually promoted to Staff-Commander. He would have been proud of the accomplishment, before. It hardly registers now.

He's stopped seeing the counselor because he knows if he was honest with her, she'd stop telling him this was normal. He can almost hear her voice; gently chiding, sickeningly concerned. "You need to move on," she would say, head tilted empathetically. "You need to let go."

It's a joke.

He thinks of the ring that draped around Shepard's neck, physical manifestation of the promise they'd made together, high above the world on a Ferris wheel in Chicago. He remembers that final promise, the one she'd violated through honesty, through no fault of her own. He thinks of his own foolishness for having asked it of her, when so much is uncertain.

For Kaidan, acceptance isn't peaceful; it's defeat. It's the realization that he will never be able to conquer his grief, because it was no small thing that he had found in Shepard. It was what happens when two flawed people come together and are made better by the union, that inexplicable alchemy. He's not a child, and never believed in soul mates. But he's practical.

It was unlikely he'd find anyone like Shepard, a person that perfectly fit him, that needed him as he needed her. It's impossible anyone like her will come again.

* * *

_They're in a darkened bar, wisps of instrumental jazz filling the room like smoke. Shepard nurses a whisky on the rocks, watching the band weave in time to the music they spin. A rueful smile plays at her lips. _

"_Thanks," she says, poking at her drink with a straw._

"_For?"_

"_For being kind. For not . . . for putting up with my weeping."_

_Kaidan was incredulous. "What was I going to do? Tell you to suck it up?"_

_She shrugged. "Believe me when I say it's not a reflection on you that I expected that."_

"_It's a reflection on someone."_

"_No one important."_

"_Yeah."_

_She's quiet for a moment. "I was thinking about it. After you went back to sleep."_

"_And?"_

"_I don't think we're supposed to close the book on the people that leave us, you know what I mean? It's impossible. It's not right. Once you let them in, they are there to stay, even after they leave."_

"_That sounds about right to me."_

"_It's kind of a curse, don't you think?" she says softly. "You have to be careful, then, of the people you let in."_

"_IS this some kind of warning?"_

_Her rueful smile was back. "I'd say it's too late for you, LT."_

"_Yeah, I'd say so."_

_She swirls the dregs of her drink, watching them spin at the bottom of her glass, and it strikes Kaidan that she is as beautiful as she is remote, imperfect, and for all his fears to the contrary, fleeting as life itself. "I'd say it's too late for me, too."_


End file.
